


Don't Change a Hair for Me

by Tea_and_Sympathy



Series: Northern Sky [3]
Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Giving them some time alone, I'll get back to Dakin & Irwin eventually, M/M, More romance and a bit of snogging, O/C Scripps Mum, Scripps Mum is a bit of a dark horse, What happened on Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22954624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_and_Sympathy/pseuds/Tea_and_Sympathy
Summary: By the time the doorbell rings, Scripps is a wreck. Sleeplessness, love, lust – he’s admitting to at least that deadly sin – have robbed him of all critical faculties.
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps, Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin
Series: Northern Sky [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642348
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	Don't Change a Hair for Me

**MONDAY**

“Donald...Donald!... DONALD... come on. It’s Stuart on the phone. Hurry up”. 

“I’m coming. Calm down". 

“Hi Scripps. What you up to?” 

“I was writing; I’ve been neglecting it”. 

“Got a new muse?” 

“Something like that”. 

“Good. Listen, I’m sorry about Saturday night”. 

“It’s okay, it worked out pretty well. I suppose I’m about to get the gory details, am I?” 

“No” 

“No?” 

“It’s private. And _you_ need to stop living vicariously”. 

“Stuart Dakin, are you feeling alright? Are you ill? At least tell me… was it… is it good”. 

“Fucking amazing”. He says it softly and the smile in his voice is transparent. Scripps hears a small, sharp intake of breath, a laugh, a whispered, “pack it in”. 

“Fuck! Is he there?” This louder than he’d intended... 

...From the kitchen... “DONALD! Language!” 

“Sorry mum...” Whispering, “Is he there?” 

“Yes, he told me I needed to apologise and generally be nicer to you. So, here I am apologising and being nice to you – in front of him”. 

“Ask him what his position is on chocolate digestives”. 

“What?” 

“Just ask him”. 

“Okay...Scripps wants to know what your position is on chocolate digestives”. 

He hears Irwin laughing, from further away now, and an indistinct response. 

“He says, as long as they’re plain chocolate because he’s not a kid”. 

“Ha!” 

“What are you two on about?” 

“Never mind, just some silliness. Anyway, I’m thinking of going to the Red Lion on Friday night - want to come?” 

“Why there?” 

“There’s an open mic night and they have a piano. I’m going to take Pos and see if I can’t get him to sing”. 

“Shit! In front of other people. People other than us, I mean. Tell him not to do anything too...” 

“...Gay?” 

“Yes, gay”. 

“Don’t worry, some of us can manage discretion. Yeah, I think it’ll do him good. He doesn’t know how good he is”. 

“Neither do you, know how good you are - together, I mean”. 

Scripps wonders briefly if Irwin has said something, but decides he can trust him not to - Stu is, so far, unaware of the subtext. “That was practically a compliment – you've gone soft. Will you come? You can bring Tom”. 

“Do you think so? Would that be okay, do you think?” 

“Oh, they’ll get over it, they like something to gossip about. And I think Pos would like to see him. No, Pos _should_ see him – he doesn’t think he wants to, but he should. And Tom needs bringing in to the fold.” 

“Okay, you’re on. But, you know, you could try thinking about yourself sometimes, Scripps”. 

“Yeah, I know. I do. I am... Stu?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you happy?” 

“Yeah, I think I am. It’s...erm... kind of unexpected". 

“Only to you, you idiot. See you Friday then?” 

“Yep, Friday. See you...wait, Scripps...” 

“What?” 

“Thanks”. 

“What for?” 

“Everything”. 

“Yeah, I love you too. See you Friday”. 

*** 

By the time the doorbell rings, Scripps is a wreck. Sleeplessness, love, lust – he’s admitting to at least that deadly sin – have robbed him of all critical faculties. 

They left the river yesterday not long after the kissing incident – citing sunburn and a dozen feeble excuses to draw a line and retreat. They parted at the usual place with a nod and a “see you tomorrow” - something of the spell having worn off and embarrassment setting in. 

Pos hadn’t said what time he was coming over - Scripps has picked up the phone a dozen times, but courage has failed him. He has no idea how this will go or even how he wants it to go. The truth is, the person he really needs is Stu. He needs to be told to stop being so fucking earnest, to enjoy this – have some fun – for however long you’ve got. But Stu is - well - unavailable. He’s tried having a “what would Stu say?” conversation with himself, but it isn’t cutting it. Bloody Dakin – never around when you need him. 

But the bell tolls and it must be answered. 

“Hi Pos”. 

“Hello”. 

Scripps barely looks at him, turns away and heads towards the kitchen “Want a drink?” Posner shuts the door and is forced to follow him. 

“Just some water please... is your mum in?” 

“She’s visiting my Nan”. 

“Dad at work?” 

“It’s Monday – so, yeah”. 

“Sister?” 

“School. They haven’t broken up yet”. 

“Just us then?” 

“Yep”. 

“We won’t be disturbing anyone then – practising?” 

“No” 

Posner leans in the doorway watching Scripps fuss around the kitchen. Getting out some glasses, not filling them, putting away some dishes left in the drainer, folding, unfolding and refolding a tea towel. He waits for Scripps to say something. Keeps waiting. Waits a bit more. Loses patience. 

“For fuck’s sake, can you stop messing about, please! What was that yesterday?” 

“What?” 

“Don’t be obtuse. You know”. 

Scripps picks up the tea towel again, puts it down – doesn't look at him. “You kissed me”. 

“You kissed me back!” 

“I know”. 

“Honestly, Scrippsy, I can’t spend any more time mooning about after someone who doesn’t want me”. 

Scripps finally looks him full in the face. He wants to make some silly comment about their sunburnt noses - make things normal - but that’s not the conversation they’re having. “Yeah? I know the feeling”. 

Posner stares. Blinks. Bewilderment and delight scudding back and forth across his face. “Me?” 

“Of course, you. Who else?” 

At this, he launches himself off the door jamb and, despite Scripps bracing himself against the worktop to block any such attempt, gets as close as he can. “Did you want me to kiss you yesterday?” 

“Yes. How can you not know that? I… really… yes…” 

“… And you kissed me back”. 

“I know”. 

“This is getting circular. Could you help out a bit?” 

“Sorry. I’m… I… oh, shit… I’m making a right mess of this, aren’t I?” 

Posner laughs and strokes his arm “It’s not your finest hour, Scrippsy, no”. 

“Don’t laugh at me Pos, please”. 

“I’m not. I’m...look, let’s start with - you wanted me to kiss you. Would you like me to do it again?” 

“Yes”. 

“Now?” 

“Yes, please”. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever known you so monosyllabic”. 

“Don’t give me time to think about it, Pos”. 

“Okay… you might want to let go of the worktop then”. 

“Oh...yeah”. Scripps let’s go his white knuckled grip on the edge of the worktop long enough to allow Pos to slip in front of him and take hold of his hands. 

“Scrippsy, it’s me - relax”. 

“I am relaxed – I'm trying anyway”. 

“Fuck, I’d hate to see you tense... hang on”. Proving that PE lessons weren’t a total waste of time, he puts his hands on the edge of the worktop and hops up to sit on it. 

“My mum would kill you for that”. 

“She’s not in and you’re not going to tell her, are you?” Wrapping his legs round Scripps’ waist he pulls him in, puts his elbows on his shoulders and tangles up his hair in his hands. He’s going to need all four limbs to contain Scripps and his nerves. 

Scripps laughs. He likes this Pos – capable, decisive and in charge. Sometimes he needs a day off, let someone else have a go. “Pos, anyone would think you’d done this before”. 

“I’m working entirely on instinct and imagination. And I have a fantastic imagination”. 

“True. You do”. 

But it’s Scripps who starts it. From here he can nuzzle into Pos’ neck and cover it in tiny, breath-catching kisses. He can take little nips at his gorgeously fleshy earlobes and slip his hands under his T-shirt to run his fingers over the nodules of his spine. 

Pos is making little gasps and whimpers that tell him not to stop, so - by the time he’s reached his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his beautiful mouth - the kiss is a seamless, wet fusion of lips and tongues and sinking into each other. For boys who have no idea what they’re doing, what they’re doing is working out very well indeed. 

When they break apart enough to smile at each other - breathless and conspiratorial - Pos asks, between delicious pecks and nibbles, “So, am I going to have to fight God for you?” 

“No, we’ve had words”. 

“What did he say?” 

“I told him - if I can’t have you, he can’t have me. And he _really_ wants me, so he gave in. And, what with all the human beings doing fucking terrible things to all the other human beings - he’s a bit preoccupied”. 

*** 

When Angela Scripps gets back from shopping and visiting her mother, she thinks she hears someone running downstairs as she puts the key in the lock. By the time she’s made a couple of trips to the car and carried all her groceries into the kitchen, she can hear the piano in the front room. Donald’s playing My Funny Valentine – she starts to sing along as she’s unpacking, “ _sweet, comic Valentine… you make me smile with my heart_ …” until she hears David’s pure, clear voice join in... 

Oh, David’s here – she’s always been fond of David. She’d be more than happy to have him distract Donald from his obsession with God - she’s a church going woman herself - but there’s a limit. They spent yesterday together too; she’s glad they haven’t drifted apart since going to University – they’ve always been close. Neither of them has shown much interest in girls - any interest, in fact - and it’s crossed her mind, more than once... she pushes that thought away and notices some dirty marks on one of the kitchen cupboards. 

“Boys, I’ve brought you some tea and biscuits. Hello David, nice to see you – it's sounding lovely, by the way - one of my favourites, that. Goodness, look at you two – matching sunburn – you really should be more careful.” 

“Hello, Angela – ooh, Jammy Dodgers”. 

“Jammy Dodgers – Mum, we’re not ten”. 

“Take no notice of him, Angela, he’s very rude – I love a Jammy Dodger, me”. 

“He is rude. Donald, you could learn a lesson or two from David – like how to put your T-shirt on the right way out for a start. Honestly, nineteen years old and you can’t dress yourself properly.” 

“Oh yes, look at that, Scrippsy - your T-shirts’ inside out – you need taking in hand”. 

“Shut up, Pos. Sorry mum, thanks for the refreshments. Any requests?” 

Angela takes a moment to consider. She takes in the crimson flush creeping out the neck of her son’s inside-out T-shirt and the sharp dig in the ribs he gave David to shut him up. She notices how they’re touching at the shoulder, the forearm and the hip when there is quite enough room on the stool to give each other space. She looks at one and then the other and almost catches David’s barely contained giggling – she notices, above all, how happy they seem. 

How about Secret Love – can’t beat a bit of Doris Day can you? Carry on though, boys, don’t mind me... Oh, by the way, David?” 

“Yes?” 

“Can you not sit on the worktop please, love - it’s unhygienic”. 

She walks away up the hall singing... _“Once I had a secret love, that lived within the heart of me” ..._ smiling to herself when she hears the boys laughing in the room behind her. 


End file.
